Searching for Luna
by Bela Luna
Summary: A rather shameless selfinsert fic. Analysis on my strange relationship with the character of Perrault.


Searching for Luna

Disclaimer: I do not own No Rest for the Wicked ( w w w . f o r t h e w i c k e d . n e t). That lovely comic is by Andrea L. Peterson, an Icarus Falls Production.

This is a self-insert fic. It is a challenge, and we all see what shall come of this.

sSsSs

She picked up the golden marionette threads, weaving and winding the characters through and under strange and mundane scenes. It had been sugar-coated with beautiful music and convincing voices but everyone could tell that, in the end, it was all a puppet show.

Luna, as so called by others, was not one to fall asleep easily without the comfort of knowing that something was there within her life. Every night, as she slipped into bed, she thought of stories. Good stories, bad stories, mediocre stories. Most of them involved a sweet-talking cat with a semi-human appearance and better words. Again, even her thoughts were sugar-coated and smoke and mirrors. By the time she woke again on a cold morning, it would be time to go to school and the fantasy was over.

She is by no means obsessive. Quite the contrary; or, she tries to be. She tries to contain herself, to remain level-headed. She writes small stories about him and a lover, an impossible relationship brought to existence beneath her fingertips, but not quite alive. This girl, referred as Luna, cannot think of putting herself within that position for she cannot say that she had been courted by a young man.

With each story, the characters inflate with pure emotion and a little more life and plausibility than the one before. For every one story that brings along progress, two more replace them to bring her back to whichever step she had thought she had left behind two or three stories ago.

She writes story about this sarcastic cat-man, too svelte to be good for anyone's sanity, but too polite to be not liked for the same reason. She sets herself up for a challenge, for constant disappoint and harsh words cast upon herself by her criticising mind. She dreams of the character, of writing not only him but of others, like as if they were real people.

They all feel elusive, but maybe she is the one who is elusive. She works with the characters, speaks to them within as if they were real. She desperately tries to understand, but her cat man merely smirks and sits down in a comfortable chair as she stands on hardwood floor, lost and feeling like a young child once more.

She goes through her work, removing him from her mind, though only half-heartedly. She tries to speak, to introduce herself properly, but Luna suddenly seems like such a silly name. She was not the moon like in that story, lost and depressed. She is not someone whom people will chase to the ends of the world to cast back into the sky to guide them all at night when they are alone and cannot sleep. She does not feel sad when she comes to this conclusion, only acceptance. She will never be immortal, but the this nobleman will, and the real Luna far longer.

She thinks of a way to find herself somehow in his good graces. But she is too too. She is too sarcastic, too stubborn, too defiant. She cannot think of a way to have a conversation without yelling and demanding that she be heard, too. She stares at the gorgeous ears, the wonderful hair, and tall, lithe form and all is forgotten and forgiven. She falls back into the fantasy, a fantasy like pink spun sugar that melts on your tongue, leaving behind only a paper cone as mocking reminder that even if it is just a little too sweet, just a little too pink, that you will always come back one time or another for a second taste.

In her world she dresses herself up in long, flowing gowns and almost drips with amber. She waltzes with the cat nobleman, but then the clock strikes midnight and it all falls apart. She cannot keep dancing and expect affection as she did in one written story. She picks up her skirts and runs, leaving behind the beautiful silk slippers that were restraining her from running across hilltops without tripping and falling in order to break her crown.

But she comes back every time, a little meek, but unapologetic. She delicately plays a violin, grating the nerves of the object of her affection, plays it till he is almost begging for her to stop. Even this, though, does not give her any insight. All she knows is what she had already known: cats hate the sound of violins, even if it the sweetest, saddest violin in the world.

Then this cat nobleman approaches her, filling her little head with sweet, manipulative words. She swats them away, though drunkenly, and shoots back a deluge of sarcastic and cheeky remarks. She refuses to back down away from a challenge, and he refuses to give her any answers.

Luna attempts and schemes and cries and begs and hopes and wishes and talks and coaxes, but her tongue could never be as sweet as his. She finds that she loves this arrogant, sarcastic cat man, finds that she wouldn't mind being embraced by him. They are scary thoughts, thoughts that she puts away. But he knows what she is thinking. He does not know the words, but he does see the image. He uses that against her, and she is weak against it. He may not be real, but he is able to control her far better than anyone she had ever met in the real world.

That was when she stopped trying. She stood still, and he strolled on by. She sat down, then chased after him as he came back the way he had come. She kisses him on the cheek, smiling broadly as she thanks him for helping her figure out the runaway plate and her estranged spoon.

He looks at her oddly, but the image curls away. She can think of the cow walking back home for it could not find the moon, and she sees how she can understand Master Perrault, the cleverest man in all the lands, just a little bit better. She thanks her imaginary non-hero hero for widening her eyes and sharpening her hearing past the human limits, something could help her write just a few more stories before dawn as she thinks wistfully of a hero that will never come, but will.

sSsSs

I am very dramatic.


End file.
